


Consanguinamory

by regnant



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abortion, Blood, Consensual Incest, F/M, Graphic, Lannicest, bloodsport, book canon, show canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-08-22 02:03:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8268550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regnant/pseuds/regnant
Summary: Sick, beautiful, and full of pride: The Lannisters love like war.





	1. Oathbreaker

**Author's Note:**

> Consanguinamory is a word describing a consensual romantic relationship between two people that are related to each other by blood. Broken down, the roots come out to "con," meaning with, "sanguine," meaning blood, and "amory," meaning sex or love.
> 
> Love with blood.
> 
> Sometimes, when two people love as fiercely as Jaime and Cersei do, the blood ends up on the outside.
> 
> This work will contain potential spoilers for the entire book and show canon.
> 
> There will be an italicized quote within each chapter that inspired it, or otherwise is meant to go with it. None of the quotes are mine!

_"Love is poison. A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill you all the same."_

 

The sun is setting, blushing and gilding the tides of ink washing before them with tones of crimson and gold. The lords and ladies paying witness are as brightly-colored crustaceans stumbling along the shore in sideways motion, parallel to the twins, ever unable to intersect, _no, we are much too singular for any of that,_ or perhaps oysters floating in tiny tide pools, hoping they might one day grow and produce pearls a tinge as bright as the two halves stood before them.

A gilded steel dagger is discarded between them in the taupe sand, slicked with their life's essence spilling onto the grains underneath. A hand rather like the dagger hangs at his side, while his good hand,  _his only hand,_  is bound to her right hand with braided ropes of seaweed, the emerald affixing adorned with murderous jewels as their hands bleed oaths into one another. _Can twins become blood brothers?_

They had played at this a thousand times at Casterly Rock as children, just this way. She isn't quite sure if she's emulated their favorite game to the smallest detail this way to appease him, or herself.

It doesn't matter.

_This is not a game. This is the end to the great game._

She can't quite see, or at least conjure to mind, the face of the man officiating next to them, but she knows he isn't a septon of any sort. The Seven would never cast their Light on a marriage like this; _We have the wrong name for that._

That doesn't matter, either.

The ceremonial words cease to exist as the sounds of his breath at her neck overtake her capacity for that particular sense. His mouth makes its way up her jaw until it is just a moment from her own. When their lips finally meet, the kiss is not the formal or tender type that one may expect to see at a wedding; Rather, they are stalking, hunting, claiming each other. Kisses turn to bites rather quickly, and carmine poppy petals prickle and bloom on her lips at the contact. She is floating away and sinking into him all at once and _oh there is nothing like this._

His hand is wriggling against hers until their wrists aren't facing each other anymore, and she can feel his fingers around her throat, constricting just right, a perfect thing of deprivation and depravity. She lets her right hand, _our right hand, our only right hand,_ join his and squeeze; even if hers is half the size, just then, he's got a perfect pair of ivory fists. For a moment, she almost chuckles, but of course queens don't do that. She indulges her mind elsewise, thinks they are destined to have a bedding ceremony without a bed, splayed across sand. Their claret is dripping and clotting, soaking, staining the dress that was once only gold until it's both of their house colors at the collar. She likens the dress to a nervous maiden on a day like this, _nothing has ever been ruined so beautifully._ Their eyes bore together for some seconds before hers fly closed, her sight lost to her. She breathes in copper gathering under her nose, at her breast, along with the salt of the Blackwater and his spices, and she doesn't want to know anything else at all, until she doesn't.

The smells and tastes are washed away like shells in the tides at their feet as the air dissipates. Suddenly, her bound hand isn't squeezing, but wriggling like his was before, grasping at the other, needing it to stop. Her eyes open again, but there are only swirling stars afore her eyes in the midst of the sunset she knows that she should see. The last thing she feels is the gripping pressure of his hand before even that ceases, the world is black, nothing, empty.

_No, please, please, not now, not yet, I love you, I love you, I love you,_

And then her senses return, eyes flying open, nostrils flaring with stale air, only for her to wish that they haven't. The crimson canopy of the bed and the smells of the Keep serve to infect and corrupt, destroying the haven that had just existed behind her eyes.

Her right hand, _our right hand, the only one left to us now,_ still numb from bearing her weaning weight in sleep, ventures hesitantly for a moment toward the tawny curls atop her head. For that moment, in the interim between the armor of sleep and the truth of waking, he is there, strong, whole once more, and she is young, beautiful, golden again, and then, the mirage shatters when the pin-and-needled fingers only meet with shorn shards of the Queen's crown.

Her mane, and the lion whose rotted fingers she craves to run through it, had left her long ago.


	2. Kingslayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boar made for a luscious funeral feast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains Cersei/Lancel. According to the canon ages, Lancel is underage by modern standards, so with that being said, don't like, don't read.
> 
> "I bite down upon heaven, lick blood from my lips. This is the queen's rise."
> 
> -hunger, a.w.

If Cersei is half of a soul, the boar is half of a murderer.

She and Lancel make up the other half together, she knows. She knows that she's trying to make up a whole of sorts with him, too, in a depraved, futile sort of way. He is just a shadow, a look-alike, half as muscled, half as tall, half as strong, half as related, _half half half,_ half the man she wishes were sat before her.

For a moment during their first night, though, he is more than half, at least. He's got those piercing green eyes, so innocent gazing up at her in worship, and his and her blonde hair fall together like waves into his pale, chiseled face. For a moment, she feels half her age, _because he certainly is,_ and she and the only man she has ever loved were born together, after all. They are truly one for a moment the first time that they are together. That reinvigorates her, and she's five-and-ten back in Eel Alley again. The Keep disappears around them, and it feels new again for the first time in years, and she relaxes even as she holds up the thing in its pliability, lets it just be that, a rediscovery, until her eyes fly open again to disappointment, to the same crimson sheets, and to their mismatched faces, his young and curious, hers older and jaded, reflected in his armor discarded on the floor.

That is the first time she says his name. If he does, Lancel pretends not to hear.

Were he truly Jaime, he'd understand what thrilled her about this. He may have championed the idea from the first, even, save for the fact that he wasn't the one to do the job himself. The Queen smiles to herself as she recalls the look on the cook's face when she had asked for her own personal portion of meat before the boar went to roast for the feast. _"Sear it on one side and then other to burn out any corruption, nothing more."_

She looks down at the platter set before the two of them. It is midday, and perhaps rather a risk for the two of them to be here together, particularly were someone to discover the door to be barred upon trying to open it, but at the same time, he is her cousin, and half her age, isn't he? No one would suspect them of any wrongdoing. _As though wolves and stags should deign to judge the likes of us guilty of anything._

While that _is_ convenient, the inherent safety of the matter takes away the usual thrill of being caught, and the authenticity dissipates for a moment from the older woman's mind. She does her best to push those feelings away, extends a long arm toward the young man at the other side of the table, thrusting the utensil into his face, the forkful of bloody boar like gore adorning the tip of a sword. "Eat."

When he says nothing, makes no move to obey her, she rises from the chair, crosses the distance between them, and settles into his lap, pulling the platter closer to the two. Tapered fingers find his cutting jaw and jerk it forward until it's just a few inches from her own. In its way, the gesture does hold a sort of affection, and more than a hint of aggression. "You'll need your strength for battle in the war to come, my cub. And lions eat their kills raw."

As if modeling behavior for a child, she takes the dripping morsel that was meant for him, cupping a hand underneath it on its journey to her lips, collecting the juices, and lets it amble and sluice its way to her mouth, meeting crisp, jutting teeth. The flesh buckles, collapses, explodes under the pressure like a building's wooden foundation in great fire. The boar's blood fluxes back and forth through the spaces between the exposed bridgework of bones; she closes her eyes, savors the sensation, and suddenly it is the current of the tides at Casterly Rock frothing and boiling inside of her. The copper taste on her tongue pulls her back to the smells of the freshly dead birds and fish that she and Jaime would find felled or washed up and bury with honor on the shores as children. A moan elopes from her lips like a secret carried on heady breath as she swallows the first bite of meat.

The fork plunges back into the thick of it, and Cersei feels like murder. They are committing regicide all over again, and the fork is a dagger biting into a still-beating heart, blood spurting up and out where the flesh is pierced, as close to doing it herself as she'll get. A gilded knife carves another slice from the slab, and she raises it to Lancel's mouth again.

"You are a lion, aren't you?"

The same sullied hand grows slicker with the boar's rasa as Lancel's portion drips its way over to his mouth. This time, his lips part at her command, almost defiant in their compliance, taking the meat between his teeth. She sees a fire behind his green eyes, consuming even now as he consumes, and they eat greedily in glutting silence. He saves her the last bite of the boar, and that pleases her because he is learning, he is a sweet, giving morsel, not unlike the boar, and she _takes takes takes._

"Your lion, Your Grace."

She doesn't take him to bed to celebrate their victory this time. She has him right where she wants him, right underneath her, insinuated between bloodied fingers that wrap into his tawny hair, ruining it as they rut with plasma and vitality. He is a house sigil living and breathing and fucking in her hands. Fingertips dip into the remaining juices, painting her face under the eyes with paw prints and savagery, lift the last little bite to dainty lips, yes, with bare hands, manners be damned because murder is never polite, but oh, can it be beautiful. She bites into it with mouth open, lets the blood spill, spatter, seep over the two of them, savoring the heat up above and down below.

He doesn't stroke the skin of her stomach in thanks when her top half is unburdened of its prison, doesn't worship her like the Mother for giving life like Jaime would, but Cersei thinks that's just fine because this is her way of thanking him for taking life away, after all. Even though she's laughing when she slaps him in the face, he doesn't hit her back like Jaime would, _only half as hard, though, he always thought me overly delicate._ Really, it almost seems like he's about to cry, but _oh, I would have done it much, much harder if I wanted that, silly cub._ She can't bear the thought of tears just now; she's far too ecstatic for him to be anything less, and so she grips him at the throat, kissing him roughly until they both grin lustily again. When she tells him that he belongs to her, hardly a murmur against his skin, far greater in fierceness than in volume, he doesn't say it back, like Jaime would, and that's just fine, too, because it wouldn't be true if he did. She doesn't belong to him at all: _I don't belong to anyone._

All the same, as Not-Jaime as Lancel is, the moment is rather perfect in its voraciousness, and she can't help herself. That is the second time she says his name, but it's not _"Jaime"_ this time, it's _"Kingslayer."_ Lancel is one, too, now, though, and Jaime is the object of both of their idolatries, after all, and _yes, yes, that must be why he doesn't protest._ The word escapes her lion's maw into his own as her teeth catch his bottom lip at the crescendo of their virile song. Dentition sinks deeply enough to have him sighing swears, oaths, oaths that he'll break in time, and the capillaries of his lip break under the smothering weight and leech oaths of their own, bathing her waiting skin in heat and sex. Cersei has no attention left for the words leaving his lips, only the essence slicking her chin, their tastes in her mouth as her tongue darts out for blood and sweat and power. His lip in her grip is like prey brought back to the pride to feast, and suddenly, finally, she's _won_ , over him, her husband, her father, over every man that ever sought to have her under them, in this way or another.

_"I bite down upon heaven, lick blood from my lips. This is the queen's rise."_


	3. Queen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fairly self explanatory, I think. Set in GoT (show) canon, during 6x10. Don't read any further if you aren't to caught up on the show!
> 
> "She's mad, but she's magic. There's no lie in her fire."  
> -Charles Bukowski

It may as well have been blood rather than wine in the goblet.

It is red enough, to be sure, and it stains her lips just as the real thing might.

_That smirking whore's blood._

She catches herself wondering what it might look like from a closer point of view. Would the blood leech from every pore, every opening, of the Tyrell girl's body? Her prying eyes, her snobbish nose, her treacherous mouth, her eavesdropping ears? That would be the greatest parallel, the truest justice, if _Queen_ Margaery's own essence would slick her chestnut hair auburn, just like the first traitor that had come to take the Queen's son, her other son, _that murderous wolf bitch with lion's blood on her lips,_ before both of their heads were hers.

Was that even possible? Would it simply disappear in a puff of smoke? Could liquids even burn? Perhaps it would evaporate without a trace in the emerald heat. Would there even be time for all of that before she was incinerated? Would she shatter from one alabaster entity into a thousand grey flakes?

_Qyburn would know._

That was the thing about death sentences. You had to savor all of the little moments, the thousand flitting, fleeting emotions. It wasn't quite the same when it was over in an instant. Even that idiot Ned Stark, even the imp that dared to call himself her brother, even they had been given a certain span of time to appreciate the fact that these moments would be their last.

Cersei would just have to imagine all of those little emotions for her, for him, for them all, then. She hardly minds: Why, it is no trouble at all. A sadistic smile creeps at stained lips as she, and the claret occupying the goblet, overflow with anticipation.

As the first flicker of flame is reflected in her wildfire eyes, she can see them all now. Every rose, once red as they liked, now green as the stems that used to hold them up, seeping together and crumbling in blood and pain, more like birth than death, their steel thorns that had invaded her sides melting in the widow's wind. Every sparrow, flapping and flailing and falling to the ground again, they air on which they hoped to find flight consumed by the molten jewels blessing their apostate wings.

Every sinner called saint, every whore called queen, every liar called kin, every boy called man, they would all bow to her will as ashes fortunate enough to kiss at her graceful feet with their smolders and heat; leather-clad, slender feet, feet draped in black silk scraping at stone, feet that would climb the stairs to stand beside her Little King once again. She would smile down at the worms sprawling beneath them just as they had once sneered at her in the throne room, because the world would be theirs once more. Her grin would form syllables as they fell from careful lips as she claimed responsibility for Baelor's blessed candle that had burst with viridian veneration and been snuffed, just like the Faith, just like the three real ones set precisely beneath the seven walls that fell.

_She's mad, but she's magic. There's no lie in her fire._


	4. Heir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beginnings become endings.  
> Bitter queens quench bitter thirsts.  
> Two don't quite agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is about Book!Cersei's abortion. Some people may find that triggering or bothersome to read, so feel free to skip this chapter if it bothers you.
> 
> "My mother groaned, my father wept. Into the dangerous world I leapt."  
> -William Blake, Infant Sorrow.

The tea smells as sour as the liquid sin that she has swallowed a thousand times to avoid this.

Cersei looks at her twin across the table through the billows of steam seething from the cup as he speaks. "You don't have to do this," his velvet voice comes from some few feet away, though it seems leagues. "You don't know that he did this to you."

"Yes. I do." Her cold eyes corrupt him with contempt. He looks almost alien to her through the haze of anger and vapor. _He has turned into such an ingrate as of late._ He doesn't appreciate her carefulness, her counting the days a thousand times, the pains that she has taken to keep this undiscovered, the pains that she will now take to keep this little monster from breathing. "We've been over this."

"What if the babe is mine?" he whispers, looking left and right as though some recreant might lurk along the walls of the royal bedchamber, listening. "He could be, Cersei..."

" _It_ is not ours, Jaime." She hates to spit the words at him so. She can tell he is distraught over the idea, but he has to heed her, and he has to do it now. "That beast put this _thing_ inside of me." Her green eyes grow great with hate. "It's bad enough..." She could not, would not finish the thought aloud. Jaime would rage to hear her describe another man rutting and spilling inside of her. "But to have it grow in me, stretch me, leech from me. I cannot bare that."

The thought makes her want to retch, much as the little parasite itself has done already three times today. Cersei is leonine, and the sun lives in her hair. A lioness must never stoop to birth an antlered abomination with scraggly black fur. Her eyes are green as sea glass, and no babe of hers will see through sapphire seas.

She knows she would be haunted by Lyanna Stark's ghost just as badly as Robert simply to look at the babe if she allowed it.

Cersei's eyes bore into his, apparently finished discussing the subject, and Jaime nods. The look on his face is not quite approval, but acceptance. He knows that she believes this to be the right choice, the only choice, that he cannot change her mind.

He pushes the glass across the table toward her. The lecherous liquid ripples wildly, nearly toppling over the edge of the mug. The tansy has yellowed the mixture, the addition of honey and herbs turning it to dark amber lager.

_The liquor of the loss of life._

Even honeyed, it tastes bitter and cruel.

She slams the mug back onto the table, occupying her hands with the ties on the back of her dress, letting it and the silken shift underneath fall to the floor without care. She makes her way over to the bed, lifting the aureate bedsheets, and turns to look at Jaime. He eyes her with confusion for a moment before coming to join her, sitting on the bed next to her. They work at the ties of his armor until he is stripped down to his smallclothes as well.

"How long do you want me to stay?"

They both know that he doesn't have duty tonight, but she is always wary of little birds, their prying ears and singing beaks plaguing the Keep. Robert is gone, though, and this is one of the few chances they will have. "Stay the night with me, brother. Don't..." She doesn't need to say it.

_Don't make me do this alone._

Leaving a few candles lit for company, they settle in for sleep, foreheads pressed together. She finds it after a long wait, but it is short lived. The feeling of frailty, the burden of bleeding, infiltrates her slumber. Sticky warmth has coagulated and turned cold between her legs. She turns in the sheets, trying to ignore the trickle tickling her thigh.

Eventually, it gets too bad to bare, the wetness, the cramping, the ache. She rips the bedclothes from her throbbing frame, sitting up to see Jaime sitting mad-eyed across the room, scrubbing at his bloodied hands with a rag next to the face basin, his gaze icing over as it meets hers. He rises, bringing a cool cloth and a candle over to her.

She finally dares to look down, chewing her lip until the danger of disjunction fast approaches. The royal bed shines like dragonglass with clotted cruor, blackened and gilded like the dead babe's banners. Cersei's thighs are slick with blood, frothed in fury, fierceness, of a silent sort, though. _Stags don't roar. Only lions do that._ Cersei knows that every babe from this point on _will._ They shall have manes as gold as their crowns.

"Never again." _I have bled this heir as I have eaten the others._

Sister needn't say anything more. Brother understands. They fall together joining bloodied hands.

And thus is Baby Baratheon born onto a bed of crimson and gold.

_"My mother groaned, my father wept; into the dangerous world I leapt."_


	5. Valonqar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am so anti-Valonqar it hurts. Let me say that.

Sleeping bodies don't lie.

He has come here, wanton blasphemies at his tongue, her name ever his favorite one. Blood boils inside of his veins, and he readies his skin for the heat of the same, for his hands to grow slick with the one sin that will cleanse them all.

He sees her, though, and it runs _cold_.

Fury dies with the dark sea foam of his eyes reflected in the great gilded mirror across from them. He hardly has need of it, for hand or none, short or tall, cock or cunt, she makes a greater replica than any spyglass could ever. The furs half cloud his slip of a sister, how positively spare she has grown. Knobby fingers trace the ghost of a grip owed to the spilled goblet of wine staining her hand, and gaunt as she is, it may as well be blood.

He has come here tonight with murder in his heart, but they have taken _that_ task from him long ago, it seems, and she fills the space, just as she always has, always _will_.

It isn't a choice, though he thinks, knows, he would still choose this if it were. He removes the armor what might beguile anyone else, _oh_ , but _not her_ , into seeing a man of strength, of honor. The steel falls away, and only flesh remains; incomplete, hungry, hungry for heat, for shelter, hungry to be whole. He brings the candle light closer to the bed as he joins her beneath the furs, finding heat in the flames, their own fire, that one that never seems to die.

He gets a good look at her, then, with her hair much like his own stubble, half obscured by the headscarf she had doubtless fallen asleep in. It only occurs to Jaime, then, that _he_ has longer hair than hers, now. A _novel_ idea, and truly, all of it is, the idea that she could be more masculine than he, that he could ever be away from her, that they could be anything but _this_.

It isn't a choice, but he knows as he presses his form into her own, after all this time, all this space, that he couldn't dream of anything else, that he'll never dream _without_ this again. Hands rest, the ivory and the gold, at the base of her throat as they entwine, finding peace, finding prophecy and subverting it, for this is the way, the only way, of love.

_Big sister._


End file.
